


As One

by Sonderlativ



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: A Smidgen of Fluff, Angst, Banter, Both literally and figuratively, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Character Injury, No beta we die in style, Post-Canon, Self-Indulgent, Sibling Bonding, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29676066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonderlativ/pseuds/Sonderlativ
Summary: Lately, he finds himself investing so much time and energy into upholding the fragile peace that has begun to settle in his mind he has nearly forgotten how to be miserable.Until he receives a grim reminder.
Relationships: Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 32





	As One

Tranquility catches him unawares.

His body is still painted with the fading evidence of bruising blows and fractured bones. 

The blade of his brother’s eponymous sword rests now, no longer thirsty for his blood and its raging hunger for his flesh sated.

A dull ache simmers in every fiber of his torn body as skin is slowly knitting itself back together and dark blemishes fade into oblivion.

The silence trapped between their murmured breaths is deafening, but not unwelcome.

Words are too abstract a concept right now, when longing is still humming beneath the surface of his skin, tightening his stomach in anticipation of another blow, another parry, one more chance to scream out his frustrations in singing steel.

And yet, as he catches the stupidly brilliant grin splitting his brother’s lips in a way infinitely more beautiful than Vergil‘s fist ever could, he feels the turmoil inside his chest grow quiet. 

The sight resonates with something inside him he had long ago thought lost and broken and cracked beyond recognition.

Even as his cautious gaze tries to read between the fine lines and cracks marring Dante’s skin, there is no hostility written in his features, no disdain, no sarcasm. Relief, yes. And joy. 

It catches him by surprise, much like the thick lump in his throat he feels unable to swallow. 

However, as the scalding gravel of the infernal plains digs itself deeper into the palm of his hand and nips at his fingertips with burning tongues, he can’t help but feel at peace. 

The shy tug of a smile at the corners of his mouth is an imperfect twin to the warmth blooming inside his chest. 

Lately, he finds himself investing so much time and energy into upholding the fragile peace that has begun to settle in his mind he has nearly forgotten how to be miserable.

Until he receives a grim reminder.

*

Dante’s breath is warm and wet against his neck as charred leather brushes against the back of his hand.

There is nothing reassuring about the slight hitch in his brother’s voice. He can hear him struggle to swallow, his raspy words drenched in the copper scent of blood.

“Look at us, Verge. Finally hugging it out!”

The humor is lost on him, as Dante’s strangled chuckle drowns in a pained groan. 

Hell is not a cheerful place. Even less so with a dying sibling steadily slipping from his tired grasp. 

“Save your breath.” The bark is not quite gone from Vergil’s voice and neither is the bite. His mind races with a million ways to _keep going, keep going, keep going_ , even as despair threatens to choke him, hope only a pitiful spark buried beneath the crushing weight of his brother and their shared predicament.

He can feel disaster looming above their heavy heads.

Exhaustion has made itself at home in his bones, his legs shaking with the effort of keeping both of their battered bodies upright and in motion. 

The abyssal plains beneath their staggering feet are teeming with life, shaking and trembling beneath the heavy footfalls of infernal forces. 

Agitated growling rumbles in his ears like distant thunder, drawing closer and closer with every step that falters and fails to take them farther away from their pursuers.

The burning air tastes of sulphur and ashes and the faint residue of magic as Dante’s body is struggling to heal itself. 

There is an empty void inside his core where Vergil’s own devil used to rage, barely more than a tiny drop of light in an ocean of fatigue after days of never-ending bloodshed and insufficient rest.

Then they stumble.

And fall.

He barely notices the sharp stinging of his bruised knees as his trembling fingers lose hold of the one thing he swore he would never let go of again. 

The grimy fabric of his brother’s shirt slips through them like silky sand.

Upon impact, Dante is eerily still. Unmoving, save for the stuttering rise and fall of his chest. Molten skin no longer knitting itself back together as the demon in his heart succumbs to the siren call of weary slumber.

There is a bleakness in his brother’s gaze that does not belong there. It chills Vergil to the bone even as his pale fingers press against the scorching ground to attempt and force his body back onto unsteady feet.

“Leave me and go.”

The finality in Dante’s voice is at odds with the tentative smile plastered onto cracked lips. 

“If you don’t want to be trapped in the demon world.”

Bloodsoaked hair forms an impure halo around his twin’s face. His heart feels like it wants to burst, nearly lurching out of his chest. There is a crushing sense of dread in his stomach and Vergil is almost sure he is going to be sick as the words slowly sink in.

And then, Dante laughs. Bitterly.

“Sorry, you should’ve seen the look on your face. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

But he had, hadn’t he? The ghost of days past, coated in youthful arrogance and misplaced pride. 

Tired amusement glints in his brother’s sapphire eyes as Vergil feels just about ready to strangle what miserable little remnants of life still lingered in his twin’s chest in cold rage for the sheer gall to throw those words back into his face.

“What a lame thing to say, anyways. No class. No style. Very you, though. You’ve always been such a sucker for melodramatics-”

“That’s enough.”

He tells himself the slight tremor in his voice is borne from exasperation, nothing more and nothing less. 

For a second, he can almost feel the pull of gravity as the ground seemingly escapes his feet, but then he realizes it is just the sweet lull of overexertion filling his limbs with lead. He is too tired to stand tall, too drained for even a single step ahead. Not that that has ever stopped him from trying before.

Everything inside him feels raw and numb at the same time as he reaches for his brother’s waist again, preparing to hoist him back up. 

There is an unspoken promise in his heart that he will drag this infuriating pest through Hell and back. Come what may.

Dante’s hand catches his before he can reach him. There is no strength left in the dirt covered fingers circling his wrist.

Still, Vergil feels almost ready to crumble apart beneath the oppressing weight of his brother’s cold skin against his own.

“I’m serious, Vergil. Leave.”

There is no joke, no witty preamble to the open worry staring back at him from a face that used to be a perfect mirror to his own, now withered away by years of separation and days of demonic onslaught.

Blood is rushing in his ears as sinister screeching rips and tears at the frayed edges of his nerves with every frantic heartbeat that passes. 

It’s not the words spilling forth that startle him.

It’s what his brother left unsaid that floats between them, suspended in fragile denial, sharp as knives and twice as deadly. 

_I’m slowing you down._

_You can make it._

_Nero is waiting for you._

_Go and say hi for me._

_And Goodbye, too._

Finally, Vergil draws a shaky breath. Forces a harsh laugh to escape his lips.

“Serious, brother? You? Don’t be ridiculous.”

For the merest second, there is surprise in his twin’s eyes, wide and caught off-guard. In that moment, he looks so much like her, Vergil muses. Broken and burnt and covered in blood, red coat charred beyond recognition and life draining out of him in rusty droplets. 

But Dante is not Eva. And his hand is not out of reach as the first spear is rammed through Vergil’s torso, forcing him back to the ground before another follows suit and tears open wounds both fresh and decades old. 

The lingering scent of hellfire and death burns his nostrils as he coughs up blood and holds on to his brother’s hand. 

Once more, he is a trembling boy rendered weak and useless by his own lack of strength as certain death casts a shadow upon their faces.

Only this time, he is not alone. 

They are together, united in death as they had been at birth.

To end the same way they have begun.

As one.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, if you’ve made it this far!  
> Concrit is always welcome.


End file.
